The river was relentless. It swallowed Frid whole, dragging him into its depths as if eager to claim his battered body. His limbs flailed weakly against the current, exhaustion turning his movements sluggish. Blood trailed from the wound in his side, diluting into the churning water. Every breath burned, his vision flickering between consciousness and darkness.

  Somewhere behind him, on the riverbank, the hooded figure stood motionless, watching him disappear into the rapids. His clenched fists trembled with frustration. Blood trickled from a deep gash on his shoulder—a wound Frid had managed to inflict in their desperate struggle.

  “Tch…” The hooded figure exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing as he weighed his options. The river was too strong. Pursuing Frid now would be reckless. He clicked his tongue and turned away.

  “You escaped this time, illusionist. But next time, I’ll carve that trickery out of you myself.”

  And with that, he vanished into the trees, leaving only the faint scent of burnt mana in the air.

  Frid drifted for hours, his consciousness slipping in and out like a flickering candle. The icy water numbed his body, dulling the sharp pain of his wounds. He had no idea how far the current carried him—he only knew that he had to survive. That was all that mattered.

  His fingers scraped against something solid—rocks, dirt, grass. With the last ounce of his strength, he clawed his way onto the muddy riverbank. He collapsed face-first onto the wet soil, gasping like a dying fish. His vision blurred, his body heavy and unresponsive.

  He had escaped.

  But his victory felt hollow.

  His mind replayed the fight over and over. That hooded bastard—who was he? A bounty hunter? An agent of the Execution Squad? Or just another rogue mage looking to exploit his illusions? His illusion magic was incomplete, flawed, yet people still came after him. It made him sick.

  A sharp pain in his ribs pulled him from his thoughts. His body was in worse shape than he had realized. The wound on his side was deep, and his mana reserves were nearly depleted. If infection set in, he wouldn’t last long.

  Just as darkness claimed him once more, the faintest sound of footsteps reached his ears. Soft and careful, they approached hesitantly. Then, a voice, distant and muffled, wove through the fog of his mind.

  "Hey… Are you still alive?"

  A gentle hand touched his shoulder, warmth seeping through the cold. Frid wanted to respond, to ask who it was, but the words never left his lips. His body refused to move, and his mind surrendered to exhaustion.

  Frid awoke to the scent of herbs and the distant crackling of a fire. His body was wrapped in bandages, the pain dulled but persistent. He blinked, adjusting to the dim candlelight. The room was small and humble—a wooden cabin, sparsely furnished, but clean.

  A woman sat nearby, grinding herbs with practiced ease. She looked up when she noticed him stirring.

  "You're awake," she said, setting her work aside.

  Frid tried to speak, but his throat was dry. She handed him a cup of water, and he drank it greedily.

  "Where… am I?" he croaked.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "My home," she replied. "I found you half-dead by the river. Thought about leaving you there, but you looked too pitiful." She smirked slightly. "You should thank me."

  Frid exhaled a weak chuckle. "Then… thank you."

  She nodded. "Agatha."

  "...Frid," he muttered, though the name felt heavy.

  For now, he was just a man trying to survive. His research could wait.

  Frid remained in Agatha’s cabin for days, drifting between fevered sleep and half-conscious pain. His body, though resilient, had suffered too much—both from his battle with the hooded figure and from the river's merciless current. Each time he awoke, Agatha was there, either tending to his wounds or busy with her own affairs.

  She never asked too many questions.

  That, in itself, was a blessing.

  Frid had learned long ago that prying curiosity was dangerous, especially for someone like him. People who asked too much usually had something to gain. Yet Agatha seemed… uninterested. She cared enough to heal him but not enough to dig into his past.

  It was strange.

  "You keep looking at me like that," she said one evening as she stirred a pot over the fire. The cabin smelled of herbs and freshly cooked stew, something Frid hadn’t had in months. "You think I’m gonna rob you in your sleep or something?"

  Frid, still weak, let out a dry chuckle from the cot where he lay. "Not used to kindness, that’s all."

  She snorted. "That’s not kindness. That’s just common decency. You were bleeding out at my doorstep. If I left you, it’d stink up the place."

  Frid smirked at her bluntness. "Then I’ll try not to stink up your home, I suppose."

  Agatha shook her head, amused. "Good. Now eat."

  Two weeks passed.

  Frid’s wounds healed faster than expected, though his body still bore the scars of his encounter. The pain in his ribs dulled to an ache, and his mana reserves were slowly regenerating. Agatha’s care, whether she admitted it or not, had saved him.

  He owed her.

  And Frid was not the type to leave debts unpaid.

  So, when he was strong enough, he helped.

  He chopped wood, gathered herbs, and repaired parts of the cabin that had suffered from time and neglect. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Agatha didn’t comment on it, only offering a grunt of approval whenever she noticed his efforts.

  She was a peculiar woman.

  She lived alone, deep in the woods, away from the bustling towns and the dangers of roving mercenaries. Her skills with medicine and healing were far beyond that of a simple herbalist, yet she made no effort to advertise her talents.

  More than once, Frid found himself watching her, studying the way she moved, the way her fingers worked deftly over a wound or how she muttered old remedies under her breath.

  "You’re staring again," Agatha remarked one night, raising an eyebrow at him from across the table.

  Frid smirked. "Just wondering why someone like you lives out here instead of in a city."

  She shrugged. "Cities are loud. People are worse."

  Fair enough.

  "Besides," she added, leaning back in her chair, "I could ask the same of you. You don’t look like a simple traveler."

  Frid hesitated. His identity as Frid, the wanted man, had to remain buried. Here, he was no fugitive, no illusionist on the run.

  He was just… someone trying to survive.

  So, instead of answering, he simply said, "People and I don’t get along either."

  Agatha smirked. "That, I can believe."

  A month passed.

  For the first time in years, Frid felt a sense of stability. His body had fully recovered, and with it, his mind grew sharper. But something strange had happened—his obsession, the constant hunger for immortality that had once consumed his every thought, had dulled.

  Not disappeared.

  But dulled.

  It was Agatha.

  Her presence, her steady and unshakable nature, had begun to pull him away from the madness that had defined his life. She never pushed him to reveal his secrets, never judged him for the things he wouldn’t say.

  It was… peaceful.

  But peace was fragile.

  And Frid knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t last.

  One day, he sat outside, sharpening a small blade, when Agatha stepped out of the cabin. She eyed him before sitting down beside him, her expression unreadable.

  "You ever thought about stopping?" she asked.

  Frid frowned. "Stopping what?"

  "Running."

  His fingers stilled on the blade.

  Agatha wasn’t a fool. She had known from the start that Frid was no ordinary traveler. He carried himself differently, with the wariness of a man who had spent too long looking over his shoulder. She never asked before.

  But now, she did.

  Frid sighed, leaning back against the wooden steps. "I don’t know if I can."

  "You can."

  He looked at her, surprised by the certainty in her voice.

  She met his gaze evenly. "You just don’t want to."

  Frid had no answer for that.

  And so, the two of them sat in silence, listening to the wind rustle through the trees.